


Vomiting Is Totally Not Something John Appreciates

by ChutJeDors



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Vomiting, i'M SAD, there's not even kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChutJeDors/pseuds/ChutJeDors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John vomits. And wallows in self-pity. Then there's Paul. Who is definitely immune to vomiting. And there's Howard. But you shouldn't really mention Howard to John. He might get a bit creeped out. John, I mean. Not Howard. Howard is not supposed to have feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vomiting Is Totally Not Something John Appreciates

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2015.
> 
> This is like, a crack fic, because apparently I can't write anything else. I'm sorry. But this is just something that I did to write at least _something_.
> 
> Beta-ed by Anna and she's a darling ily <3

John splashed cold water on his face and grimaced right after when the dreadful freezing feeling took over his senses. He shivered violently and decided that this was NOT a good idea, even if it was five in the morning and he felt like death. His mouth tasted like the rotting remains of a rat and his eyes ached like they always did at _five in the morning_.  
  
He didn't know what had woken him up. He hadn't had any dreams that could've caused it. He hadn't had a drink in a few days, so alcohol wasn't the reason either. It wasn't too hot or too cold in the house.  
  
Cynthia and Julian were not home; they were visiting Cynthia's mother. That was a trip John avoided at all costs, so he had said that he and Paul had to write. This was not a total lie, but not the truth either. Jane was home so John couldn't go over to Paul's house because Paul was _way_ too busy saying _hello_ , which annoyed John a lot, as he'd never liked Jane that much and didn't see a reason why Paul should have ditched his best friend because of her-  
  
Maybe he'd woken up because of that? Maybe Jane annoyed him so much? Maybe she had developed some strange telepathic powers only to bother John's lonely sleep?  
  
...  
  
John strongly doubted that this was the case. No, there must have been something else that had caused this unfortunate morning... thing.  
  
When he had woken up he hadn't felt like staying in bed. He had thrown one tired glance at the clock and had immediately decided that this day was going to suck. And then he had had a huge urge to go in the loo. And then he had thought of wetting his face. Marvellous.  
  
John stared at his reflection in the mirror and a tiny sigh escaped his lips when he took in the bags under his eyes. Why, oh _why_ was he awake at this time?? He'd barely had four hours of sleep. Why would the world be so cruel and make him suffer this way?  
  
He felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach and his lips pressed into a tight line. He probably should go and eat something and maybe then try sleeping again. There was no way he could make it through the day in a state like this.  
  
He let go of the sink that he'd been leaning on with his palms and was surprised to find himself staggering when trying to take a step. His head was light and the emptiness in his stomach increased. The feeling was vaguely familiar, not like hunger, but...  
  
He felt it coming up.  
  
The toilet seat was too far away. He threw himself towards the sink again and then he vomited.  
  
It was certainly a wonderful way to begin one's day.  
  
***  
It took him ten minutes to clean up the mess he'd made. During that time he came to a conclusion that he was probably ill and that he should most likely search for a bucket before he would be sick all over again. When he'd finished with the sink, he threw up into the bathtub because the toilet seat was _still_ too far away. When he had finished cleaning the bathtub, he decided to wait next to the toilet seat to avoid further rubbing and washing.  
  
After the third time being sick (masterfully directed straight into the toilet water) he knew he had to eat something -or at least try- before he started throwing up his guts. He got up with a groan and fetched a bucket from the cleaning cupboard that he hadn't been sure existed before now. _Sure_ , he had heard rumours of it but had never witnessed it being real before now. The things one learns while puking on the floor right next to a mysterious door..!  
  
After he'd got the bucket things became easier and he dared to go into the kitchen. Opening the fridge made his stomach feel uncomfortable so he moved on, opening the cabinets one by one. He discovered that Cynthia had her own personal chocolate hidden behind the salad bowls. He found that one toy Julian had lost a decade ago from the flour cabinet. He got a bunch of musty bread falling on him when he opened a cupboard that had probably been closed for... well, for some time. It was too high so that Cynthia couldn't reach it, meaning that it must've been John who put the bread in there.  
  
Probably somewhere around the time they had moved here. Which made it a... a rough year or so.  
  
John stared at the bread on the ground and got an overwhelming urge to throw up. So he did.  
  
After a thorough search (and four more vomits) he finally found crackers from the deepest corner of the last cabinet. Puking had reached painful limits now and drinking water hadn't helped. If he managed to get the crackers down, then _maybe_ something would get easier. Like being sick.  
  
He only hoped that it would be over soon.  
  
***  
  
The next morning he was still vomiting. His body felt weak and he wanted to die. He couldn't find strength to make tea so he relied on drinking water and eating the crackers that were now almost finished. He tried listening to some music, some of the deeply boring jazz albums that he had in his shelf for some weird reason, but his constant puking distracted him a bit and he found that he didn't really feel like doing anything. He stayed away from the music room in case he happened to throw up over the piano. He didn't feel like cleaning up _that_.  
  
He had called Cynthia after the fifth vomit that morning and told that she should probably stay at her mother's place for some more time. He didn't want her or Julian to get ill, because that would be a drag for everyone. Cynthia had sounded slightly worried, but John knew that it was more because of the fact that he might ruin half of their furniture by being sick on it. So nice to have such a sweet, loving wife.  
  
He lied down on the sofa with a groan of pure mental pain and put a hand over his face. He didn't know how much longer he could take it; the first night he had slept about three or four hours and last night he hadn't slept a wink.  
  
He thought of writing a song about it, but knew that he couldn't get very far. Maybe he should just try and sleep a bit.  
  
He closed his eyes just when his stomach lurched again and he sighed before turning on his side, grabbing the bucket and vomiting into it. He stayed in that position for a second, his eyes closed, his hand slowly putting the bucket back on the floor when he knew that the last drop of his morning crackers were finally out of his body. The ugly taste in his mouth made him want to throw up again, but he managed to suppress the temptation. How much longer would he have to stand this?  
  
The ringing of a phone distracted him from the hollow feeling in his stomach and he lifted his head, stared at the object on the other side of the room accusingly. There was no way he would stand up and walk over to the thing. Bugger the one that was calling. John sighed and rested his head against the sofa pillows once more. He closed his eyes and thought how wonderful it would be to be on tour, or at the studio, or _anywhere_ but here, on his sofa, next to a stinking bucket full of deceased crackers.  
  
***  
  
There was someone calling again.  
  
That someone had called now five or six times in a row. John found the ringing sound very annoying.  
  
He stared at the ceiling of the living room and pondered for the millionth time if he should just get up and answer. Maybe it would be the best. He could tell the caller to fuck off and let him wallow in his own personal misery. His vomiting had slowed down, though, which was a very positive thing. But it hadn't slowed down _enough_.  
  
He dragged his feet off the couch first and let his body get up, hearing his back let out a few very inspirational cracking sounds. He took a hold of his head when sitting up and let his eyes rest closed for a while against his palms, relishing the sweet darkness. He felt dizzy and realised that it had been few hours since he had even drunk water. He should probably fix that, somehow.  
  
Standing up was one of the hardest things he had done in his life, hands down. He _loathed_ the feeling of being on his feet. His arms and head felt heavy and his stomach was rolling around again, reminding him that it still had _lots_ to give. John grimaced and put a hand over his forehead, trying to feel if he had fever.  
  
No, nope. He didn't, which was quite fine, actually. He didn't really have a huge desire want for any other problems with his health at the moment.  
  
The ringing continued still and John let out a moan, mumbling 'yeah, okay' before making his way towards the telephone. He had almost made it there when he remembered that he should maybe take the bucket with him if he didn't want to clean stuff again. So he returned to the sofa, took the bucket wherein the disgusting liquid-kinda thing was sloshing around. He vomited casually and got back to the phone that still hadn't stopped ringing.  
  
He took the receiver in his hand and smacking his mouth a few times to get the ugly taste away, sighed as a hello.  
  
He wasn't prepared for the flood of noises that came.  
  
_"JOHN!!!"_ screamed three (or four) voices and John jumped, almost dropping the phone in the progress.  
  
" _Jesus_ ," he hissed and brought his free hand to his ear, covering it from the shouting on the other end of the line. "What the _fuck_???"  
  
_"We've been callin' you for **ages**!"_ said one of the voices that John dimly registered as Paul. The other, Ringo probably, was asking whether he was alright or if he was dead. George was sourly shouting that he had missed a marvelous opportunity to see Jane Asher naked. John wasn't very sure what to think about this.  
  
"Guys," he groaned, still holding the receiver some twenty metres away from his ear, "guys, please. Could you just, I don't know, bugger _off_? Or at least speak _silently_."  
  
Ringo's 'what, are you actually dead' could be heard, but John chose to ignore that. He took a deep breath in through his nose and sat down on the floor, not bothering to look for a movable chair. He crossed his legs and placed the bucket in front of him, so that in case of... flooding, he would only have to lean forward and, well, do the thing.  
  
For a second it was silent when his three friends who were somehow mystically all in the same place at the same time waited for him to speak. John bit his lip and spoke.  
  
"Well," he started and paused for a minute, hearing three grown men breathing, making him slightly queasy. "I'm kinda ill."  
  
_"What kinda ill??"_ was Paul's immediate question and John suppressed a groan. He wasn't in the mood for Paul I-Actually-Care-If-You-Hurt-Your-Arse -McCartney.  
  
"I'm vomiting my liver out," he answered and heard three simultaneous 'oh's. "And could, by any chance, two of you go somewhere _else_???" his voice rose with irritation and there was a slight fuss that probably came from one of the beatles kicking two of the beatles away. John closed his eyes and let his head rest down, his other hand on his lap. He felt unable to lift a muscle.  
  
_"So,"_ came a melodic voice and John knew that Paul had won the Great Fight of Facial Expressions that had most likely taken place. _"You've been ill since yesterday?"_  
  
"Yeah," John said blankly. "Started puking yesterday mornin' at five."  
  
_"Oh."_ Paul's voice was mostly sympathetic. _"How are you doin' now then? You didn't answer the phone and I thought that you'd maybe drank yourself silly and passed out under the piano without any clothes, your hand on your dick and an Elvis record on top of your face."_  
  
"That was one time," John muttered but could feel the corner of his mouth twitching a bit. "Besides, it was very comfortable to hold my dick. My dick feels very nice."  
  
_"I wouldn't know,"_ Paul said nonchalantly and John snorted a laugh, fearing that proper laughing would cause some unfortunate events.  
  
"Sure you wouldn't," he grinned openly and heard Paul laugh softly, if not a bit hesitatingly.  
  
_"Honestly though, how are you feeling? Despite the occasional puking and such?"_ Paul put the overly worried tone on again and John took a deep breath, sensing his stomach.  
  
"Well, I feel kinda empty..." he started but trailed off when the ugly feeling started making its way upwards.  
  
"Sorry," he managed to say before he pressed the telephone against his shirt to mute down the unpleasant sounds, leant forward and threw up once again.  
  
Fortunately it didn't take long, or, well, it never did, but this time he was back sitting up in no time, the bucket safely few centimetres away from his legs and the receiver back against his ear.  
  
"Sorry," he said after a pause, "I... I kinda had to..."  
  
_"Yeah, it's alright,"_ Paul was laughing quietly and John relished the sound, closing his eyes and breathing deeply in and out. He was sure he would be able to fall asleep if Paul was next to him, talking about anything. Paul's voice tended to have that sleepy effect on him.  
  
_"George and Ringo came for a visit 'cos apparently they got dead bored, and then we drank a bit and Jane gave us a strip show, which was very entertaining. I tried to call you to see if you'd like to join us as well, but the line was taken and then I got... distracted."_  
  
"Ah. Must've been around the time I called Cyn," John looked at the ceiling and wondered if he would be able to shoot the next vomit up there. He wouldn't be able to clean it up. Cynthia would have a fit.  
  
_"Probably, yeah. But, well, I'd come over an' stuff but I don't know if Brian appreciated two of us falling ill. Except that... Well, I won't be taking any unnecessary risks."_  
  
"I don't think he would appreciate it. What 'except'?"  
  
_"No 'except' You imagined it. But, yeah, me neither. Oh, well, I have money. I can stay on the phone as long as I like."_  
  
"You also have a girlfriend, Paul. And mates." John rolled his eyes.  
  
_"...Whooo aare... uhm... they might be actually upstairs together."_  
  
"What."  
  
_"Yeah. I'm not very sure either."_ Paul sounded like this was one great wonder that required solving. And suddenly it all came clear to John.  
  
"You're high, you lot!" He knew he sounded quite accusing but well, he had the rights to. Here he was vomiting out his guts while his friends were getting high and having sex with one of their girlfriends who had nice legs and nice tits. As far as John was concerned.  
  
Paul giggled a bit nervously and the said happily:  
  
_"I might've taken a joint. But that's like, not rele... relevant."_  
  
"Paul," John sighed exasperatedly and lifted his hand to rub the base of his nose. He wondered briefly where his glasses were. He would probably find them at some point, though. By stepping on them.  
  
_"But it's already almost worn. I think. But let's not talk about that. Let's talk about your tiny problem."_  
  
"My tiny problem," John repeated and tried to understand how was this problem _tiny_?? "I haven't eaten properly in two days."  
  
_"Hmm,"_ he heard Paul say, _"Do you want me to come over? 'Cos I can."_  
  
"No, no, you'll only get ill like me," John sighed and eyed at the vomit bucket, feeling tired and just, worn out.  
  
_"I think I could handle. But it's what you want,"_ was Paul's answer and then there was a slight chuckle. John raised his eyebrows.  
  
_"I think I heard a shout of 'that's not how you play monopoly'. I wonder what's going on."_  
  
"Something that I don't wanna take part in, for sure."  
  
_"Don't be a prejudiced arse, John."_  
  
John rolled his eyes and rested his head against his palm that he had supported on his legs.  
  
" _You_ , of all people, should know that I am _far_ from being one."  
  
_"I know that you're an arse?_ "  
  
"Now what have I ever done to get you attacking me like that?" John made a dramatic gasp and he heard Paul laughing, his voice warm and full in his ear.  
  
_" **Oh** , Johnny, you have **no** idea what I've gone through, and only because of **you**!"_  
  
"I'm hurt, Paul, I really am. My heart is bleeding vomit," John fake sobbed and then threw up. He heard Paul let out a sigh and apologised before ducking down again. He felt his guts spasm and he wished, oh, he wished _so much_ that it would be soon over. How pathetic.  
  
The situation was over after John had gone and drank a glass of water before returning to the telephone. Paul had been humming faintly to himself and John had a huge urge to call him over and lock them both up into the music room for a few hours. He was so ready for work. He would give anything to be able to work at the moment.  
  
_'Something that I won't remember in a week,'_ he thought, half amused, and lifted the receiver to his ear.  
  
"So," he started and paused, not really knowing what to say. "Sorry. Needs must-"  
  
_"Yeah, don't worry 'bout it,"_ Paul's carefree voice interrupted him and John smiled, despite the foul feeling he had inside.  
  
"I'd give anything to be there right now," he confessed, sounding as tired as he was. Paul was silent for a minute and John imagined him biting his lip.  
  
_"Well, I think I'd be kinda happy too,"_ the man then said and John was suddenly holding down tears. Not sleeping did that to him, give him emotions and stuff.  
  
"Sucks to be me," he muttered, his throat tight. Paul hummed, agreeing.  
  
_"Yeah, it surely does. Whereas it is **wonderful** to be me."_  
  
"Are you so sure? With all that _ache_ in your _you-know-what_ -?"  
  
_"John,"_ Paul hissed and John laughed out loud. _"You **promised** you'd **never** mention it again!"_  
  
"One drunken promise doesn't count," said John wisely and he heard Paul wheeze with pain.  
  
_"I swear to God, Lennon."_  
  
"What? I don't see anything wrong remembering a night I _thoroughly_ enjoyed!" John put up a cheerful voice and had a passing thought of whether this was a good idea to talk about this _now_ , when a) he was ill and b) Paul was a bit high. These things never turned out well when put together.  
  
_"I'm coming over."_  
  
"No, wait! Shit, Paul-"  
  
The line went dead and John wrenched the receiver away from his ear, stared at it accusingly. No. There was no way that Paul would come into his house _now_.  
  
He tried calling the man again, several times, but no one answered for the first four times. The fifth time calling it was Ringo who picked up the phone and said with a calm and peaceful voice that Paul had took his car and left, which was very mysterious indeed. Did John happen to know the reason? And if he happened to see Paul could he please tell him that Jane had beaten George up in Monopoly and that George didn't like it At All? And Ringo was in desperate need for a drink. And also, if Paul _happened_ to come over anytime soon, could John please keep him out of vomit? Thank you.  
  
And then Ringo dialled off and left John looking at the vomit bucket with an unbelieving expression on his face.  
  
He was now sure.  
  
Of all the idiots in the world, Paul was the most idiotic one. The Master of Idiots. The Idiot Lord.  
  
John buried his head in his hands and wondered if Paul would someday forgive him if he threw the bucket at the man. It would be for Paul's own good.  
  
He lifted his head and started to wait for the bell to ring.  
  
***  
  
Paul somehow had his own keys. So it came as a total surprise to John when the bassist suddenly popped inside the living room where John had decided to build himself a fort out of pillows and a table. He almost dropped the bucket where he had been holding it to place it inside the fort, but fortunately didn't. That would not have been very nice.  
  
"Uh. John?" Paul asked and John turned slowly, slowly, before his eyes met the figure of his best friend standing there, car keys in one hand and the other one slightly raised, as if Paul was trying to grab John from the distance and shake some sense into him.  
  
"Oh. Ehe. Paul. Er.... Hi?" John breathed and then realised that he had to get into action. He stuffed the bucket inside the fort between the pillows and then surged in himself, pulling the last pillow on place, closing the soft wall. He had simply taken the table and put the pillows around it, but it worked wonderfully. Now John could neither see Paul, nor anything else, because he had put a blanket around the _fort_ , except on the spot where he had to go in.  
  
He crawled in the middle of the dark settlement and took the bucket in his hands, ready to use it if necessary. He couldn't hear anything and didn't know if Paul was still frozen on spot. His pulse had quickened and he thought vigorously of how to get the man out of this house. As fast as possible, thank you.  
  
"John," Paul spoke and John clutched at the bucket. He had a passing thought of giving it a name. Howard. Now that sounded nice. He clutched at Howard and felt an unpleasant shiver run through him when his best friend took a step towards his bunker.  
  
"John. I'm starting to wonder if it was actually you who took the joint."  
  
"Just go away," John called and blinked. And then his stomach lurched and he threw up all over Howard.  
  
"Sorry Howard," he muttered after finishing and he heard Paul pause in front of the table.  
  
"John?" he asked carefully and John wondered how many times Paul was going to say his name again as a start of a sentence. It made him feel slightly nauseous.  
  
"How long has it been since you ate something? And have you checked the _fever_??"  
  
The auburn-haired man almost snorted at the question. Of course he'd eaten! And he didn't know how long it'd been since he'd had fever.  
  
But then he caught his thoughts and realised that Paul might've had a point. His mind was making up totally incoherent things and when he heard his best friend take another step towards his fort, he head was suddenly filled with images of it not being Paul; but someone, who had come to harm John, and taken Paul's form.  
  
He frowned and started counting his latest meals with his fingers.  
  
After some difficulty he came to a conclusion that it had, in fact, been some time since he ate something.  
  
"The last meal I had was the night before getting ill," he responded, a confident tone in his voice. He heard Paul sigh and then the man apparently kneeled down in front of the table-fort, as his voice came a lot closer.  
  
"And did you eat _anything_ after that?"  
  
"Nope," John said slightly cheerfully and thought the possibility of luring Paul out by saying that Elvis had promised to keep the birds out of his garden. Although they had started to grow out of their childhood hero's influence after meeting him. But one never knew. Maybe the King was actually there?  
  
_"He called me and told that he likes birds,"_ said a voice John couldn't recognise. But then he looked down and realised that it was Howard who was speaking. When had Howard gotten his... er, hands, on the telephone?  
  
"Howard, you don't have hands," he stated and Howard looked at him with a weird glint in his... uh, eyes.  
  
"You don't have eyes either," John continued and Howard snorted, the corners of his... mouth... turning down.  
  
John stared and then lifted his head, looking for a tiny flicker of light where the blanket wasn't covering the fort.  
  
"Paul?" he asked, his voice a bit unsure. Paul shifted even closer, as the light disappeared when his body came in front of it.  
  
"John?" Paul's voice was balanced and business-like, and John knew that shit was going down and fast. Paul was now in his Mr. I-Won't-Hear-Any-Objections-Because-You-Need-To-Get-Better-You-Stupid-Arse mood, and nothing that John said would get him out of it, not before he had stuffed John with various sorts of food.  
  
"...Um, Howard is not supposed to speak, right?  
  
"Howard? Who's Howard?" Paul's voice had an alarmed tone now and John bit his lip, fairly sure now that he was on the edge of becoming mad.  
  
_"Quite cowardly to complain about it right away, I must say,"_ said Howard and John squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to stay calm. He had to eat, and he had to sleep. And he needed to. Stay. Calm.  
  
"Howard is the bucket," he breathed and for a second it was so silent that John thought Paul had suddenly realised that there were much more important things to do and had teleported himself out of this house, but then the pillows in front of him suddenly shook and light poured in as Paul threw them out of his way.  
  
"C'mon," he said simply, his face unreadable, and John offered him Howard before climbing out of the ex-fort that had deeply failed his trust in keeping Paul out. He couldn't stand on his feet, so he just crawled a bit forward and slumped against the sofa, letting out a huge sigh. His whole body felt weak and he couldn't think of anything to say except:  
  
"I am not sure if he is supposed to speak."  
  
Paul looked at the bucket, his left eye twitching one or two times when the smell of the vomit filled his nostrils, and then he moved his gaze on John. Then he looked at the bucket again.  
  
"So this is Howard?" he asked carefully and John nodded, too exhausted to say anything anymore. Building the fort had taken all his might.  
  
"Well, I'm going to wash Howard, because it looks like he's in need. Wait here," the bassist said, already turning and still staring at the vomit inside Howard, when John suddenly found his voice.  
  
"I don't wanna clean!" he shouted and Paul jumped, his head snapping around.  
  
"Clean?" he asked and John felt a twitch on the corner of his eye. Why didn't Paul see that John could vomit any moment? If Paul took Howard away, where could John throw up without having to clean it up? John hated the confusion in his voice. Paul was supposed to know what was going on. He was supposed to help John through this illness. Paul was _not_ supposed to look at him, his expression that of a stunned goldfish.  
  
"Yeah," he said and tried to adapt a tone in his voice that meant 'I don't even know why I bother to speak with a lower being', but failed miserably and ended up sounding like Brian when announcing that the boys had consumed all of the studio cafeteria's tea supplies.  
  
"I'll clean," Paul's voice was now reassuring and John found himself nodding and feeling quite empty. Paul was off the moment John's head got back up and then the man could only hear him washing Howard, humming to himself.  
  
He felt relief surge inside him when he realised that Howard had shut up.  
  
***  
  
"Seriously, why didn't you call me sooner?" Paul nagged and poured some water for John, who was sitting at the table, listening to Paul's nagging.  
  
"I didn't... I didn't want _you_ to become ill," he muttered and played with a pink napkin. Paul sighed naggingly and a frown appeared between his eyebrows. John watched it with fascination and tried to remember when he'd seen such a frown before.  
  
...Ah. Yes. Back. Then.  
  
"Killing yourself in the process isn't very clever either, I'd say," Paul nagged and placed the water in front of John, shooting him a stern glance that made John obey without second thoughts. He took the glass and sipped it, holding Paul's gaze.  
  
"I wasn't killing myself," he then said, his voice slightly rasped. Paul raised his eyebrows, the frown disappearing. John swallowed.  
  
_...Paul frowns down at him and John grins sloppily, bringing his hands up to rest on both sides of Paul's head. Paul swallows and closes his eyes, the frown still visible on his forehead. John strokes Paul's cheek, and he smells alcohol and cigarettes. Smells them so strongly that he can almost taste them, and then Paul is coming closer and closer, and just before it happens, just before the inevitable happens, Paul opens his eyes and whispers and it seems to be echoing in the room:  
  
"I'm gonna hold you responsible."  
  
John giggles, his brain mushed by alcohol, and then Paul kisses him._  
  
John blinked and turned his eyes away from Paul, looking at the glass of water instead. Had Paul slipped in something stronger other just tasteless transparent liquid?  
  
"I won't get ill, just so you know," the dark-haired man said into the silence, moving away towards the fridge. "I was quite recently in a similar condition, if you remember."  
  
"No I don't," John looked up and now it was his turn to frown. "When?"  
  
"You were in Liverpool visiting Mimi. I vomited for two days and then it was over." Paul eyed him and John felt his mouth fall open.  
  
"I had no idea," he muttered and took another sip of water. Paul started rummaging through the fridge.  
  
"I don't think I even mentioned it. It's not like I tell you everything," he said silently, his face halfway into the machine. John could hear hesitation in the man's voice and he frowned.  
  
"I thought you did," he stated and saw Paul twitch weirdly. Hmm.  
  
"Well," his mysterious best friend glanced at him, "there's stuff."  
  
"Like you being ill for two days and not telling me."  
  
"Were you going to tell _me_ that you were vomiting your guts out?"  
  
"...No, but that's beside the point."  
  
"That's what I thought, too," Paul sighed and took out something that looked possibly like chicken soup. John bit his lip.  
  
"I think that's at least five days old," he said and Paul grimaced, placed the soup container on the table.  
  
"Maybe I'll just go shopping," he let out a slight sound that resembled a groan. John knew Paul _hated_ shopping.  
  
"You'll get torn apart," he said matter-of-factly and Paul closed the door of the fridge with a deep breath.  
  
"I guess."  
  
John had now finished the water and got an urge to check that Howard was still close. He felt much calmer and better now that Paul was here. The hallucinations had stopped and the bucket stayed silent, fortunately.  
  
He stared at the bassist and had a huge urge to go and hug the man. Or pat him on the shoulder. Or... anything, really. Just to show Paul that he actually cared. He had a bad habit of ignoring people that were important to him.  
  
"Paul?" he asked, if not a bit hesitantly. Paul closed the door of the cupboard he had been examining and turned to face him.  
  
"Yeah?" the man raised his eyebrows and John found himself missing the frown that would always remind him of _that_ night.  
  
"I think I'm gonna vomit again."  
  
Paul chuckled and took the water glass from John, picked up the bucket and gave it to him.  
  
John closed his eyes and leaned over Howard, readying himself.  
  
Paul filled the glass with water.

 

***~ FIN ~***

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone wants to leave kudos to _this_ but the button exists if _anyone_ feels like it. Idk this was a wild ride right from the beginning.


End file.
